


how do you tame a lion, it was a savvy answer (the repartee and argument; you look like a dancer)

by therestisdetail



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, and other people - Freeform, i don't want to tag for a one-line reference that's mean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:29:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7042501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestisdetail/pseuds/therestisdetail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I think I'm dying," Charlie says, stretched out on a couch that's far too small for that to be comfortable. "I'm dying, maybe already dead, and I want it on my gravestone that it is because of a split infinitive and your lack of mercy."</p><p>"Finish the draft, then you can die," Meyer says reflexively. </p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">(aka politics!au taken too seriously; not that seriously, but much too seriously)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crimsonxflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/gifts).



 

 

> _The Daily Show, 16/05/2016, 24 min 32 sec_
> 
>   
>  _CANTOR: ... coverage continues around the somewhat compromising  - no really, this is what all the cool kids are doing now - compromising pictures of Rothstein's barely-legal campaign manager leaked last week. And as any career politician will tell you, this is the time of the gold-plated No Comment. I believe we have a clip?_

 

 

"I'll resign," Charlie says. There's something freeing about saying it aloud, the special kind of relief when the car finally does go off the road, when the plane stops shaking and starts dropping. It is 4am and the pictures are online and there's nothing to be done, not anymore. "I'll resign, I can-"

There's not even a beat before Meyer, implacable, says "it won't help." Which makes no sense. Charlie has done this and Charlie can't undo it but he can do something. Surely he can do something.

"It won't help." Meyer is in front of him, reliable, relentless. "Charlie? Look at me. That will not help anyone."

"Mey-"

"I know. I saw. But it will not help, because you are not the story if they keep digging. It- he is."

Meyer barely stutters over the words to fill the space Charlie's never fucking been brave enough to try and fill between them, but of course he is, of course he knew. Of course he knew. But he doesn't know what it's like to see that, his own face and his own skin on screen after screen, and know that he has set fire to everything they have all been trying to build. He didn't do it alone, he had help, he had AR's fingers in his mouth when they both knew better. The most worn out script in the playbook, that one, and Charlie still couldn't keep off his knees.

It would be easier if Meyer were angry.

"You can't tell who." Charlie says. His throat is dry. "From the - from those."

"Yes," Meyer says.

"It can't be him."

"I know."

"But they'll-"

"Until they get a story," Meyer says softly, indefinite and definite articles dancing with something Charlie missed, and he has no idea when he sat down, or when Meyer's fingers twisted themselves into his hair. He's grateful for both, though. They make sense, and nothing Meyer is saying really does.

"Charlie. _Charlie._ We'll work it out, yes? " Meyer says, "However long it takes."

 

 

 

> _Huffpost Politics, 10.45 am, The Rothstein-Van Alden Debate; Ah, What Could Have Been_
> 
> _As further proof that 2016 is perhaps the most insane campaign year since -- oh ... 1876, or 1824, or maybe even 1800 (check 'em out) -- Nelson Van Alden and Arnold Rothstein have been talking, with some seriousness, about debating each other before the June 7 California primary._
> 
> _But it seems this is not going to happen: Friday afternoon, Nelson Van Alden put out a barely coherent statement in which he announced he was declining to participate in any such event-_

 

  
  
AR doesn't make it to the last two hours of handshakes and small talk, so it's Carolyn who Meyer shadows, murmuring grandchildren's names and offbeat  hobbies, policy points and weak spots. Donors tend to stumble over their words just a little more, with her. A politician hasn't sat so close by them in Forbes' listings before, let alone his wife, all the wires are crossed and they don't know which arena they're playing in.

She rests a hand on his arm where she could lay it on his shoulder, the hair-tussling endearment of youth implied. He appreciates that. He always will appreciate that. She is very fond of Charlie, in her way, and Charlie is as half in-love with her as he is with every woman who can cut him to silence with a look. But when she needs someone to step into the footprints that AR's absence leaves, she chooses Meyer. He is fairly certain it has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with what she can tell her husband by doing so. He just wishes he could work out what the message is. When they leave for the car he takes his jacket off to put around her shoulders, and she laughs at that but not at him.

Later, in the office, she gives it back, brushes her knuckles against his cheek. Her fingers are cold. AR is coming through the door.

"You were missed, darling," she says. "But only by me, if I've played my part."

"A fortunate man," AR murmurs, after kissing her cheek, "to have you to hold the fort so admirably."

This is a blood sport and Meyer is not an entirely unwilling spectator, but he's distracted for a moment by a flash of colours that were never intended to cohabitate, on a t-shirt or otherwise. Benny leans against the glass of the door but doesn't push it open, raising his eyebrows in question. Meyer shakes his head, barely perceptible. A moment later his phone vibrates.

_have they decided who gets u in the divorce_

Meyer doesn't smile. It takes more effort than he'd admit to.  _Arguably I count as a pre-marital asset_ , he replies. The emojis he receives in return are, quite frankly, unforgivable.

 

 

>   _The Daily Show, 16/05/2016, 24 min 34 sec_
> 
> _[Begin video]_
> 
> _Sen. Rothstein (D-NY): I have no comment on any speculation regarding the personal lives of my staff. The individuals involved have my utmost-_
> 
> _Reporter: Individuals?_
> 
> _Rothstein: As I said, I have the utmost faith in the professionalism of my staff, and would like reiterate my own commitment to an inclusive and non-discriminatory working environment. I have no further comment._
> 
> _Reporter: Senator, you're saying that both-_
> 
> _Rothstein: I have no further comment._
> 
> _[End video]_
> 
> _CANTOR: Nice job with the Not Commenting there, Senator._

 

 

Charlie meets for a casual brunch and orders a brioche, then proceeds to take it apart without actually eating any of it while absently filling in any gaps Frank leaves in the conversation. He thinks he's doing okay at pretending to focus until Frank's hand lands heavy on his wrist.

"Charlie," Frank says, "All love no matter what, just be straight with me here, are you on coke right now?"

"What." Charlie says, and; "Fuck you, Frank. _What_."

"Just checking," Frank says, altogether too smug. "Charlie. You didn't come here for anecdotes from those of us who actually make money."

Charlie bites on his tongue hard enough to concentrate then leans in. His coffee is cold. Frank will buy him another one.

"You've seen-"

"Yeah, kiddo."

"We're-"

"Yeah. That can't be easy." And the thing is, Frank says it and means it, dark eyes soft.

Charlie's not sure if Frank knows how easily he pulls the ground out beneath him. Frank is someone his father would have nodded to, man to man. Men like Frank - he knows men like Frank, raised how he was raised, men who know the rules and the role and stay inside the lines, marry the lovely girl, correct those that step outside the - men like Frank. Men not like Frank at all. His hand is still on Charlie's wrist and there was a time, once, when he asked if that was alright.

"How am I supposed to make it look real?" Charlie asks, slightly wild-eyed. "How do I make it look like we're fucking... we're _fucking_?"

"Oh." Frank says.

"Right." Frank says.

"Oh, jesus fucking _christ_." Frank says.

"The thing is- " Frank says.

 

 

> _Top Politics Tweets Retweeted: STOP WEED SMOKING!! @ConcernedMom420 16 Jan 2016 | Shocking pictures. Pop homosexuals One Direction seen here addressing Joseph Konys army of child soldiers._

 

  
"The thing is," Benny says, switching chewing gum from one side of his mouth to the other. He isn't having the greatest day. "I was making those appointments for February 29th."

"Okay."

"There is no February 29th," Benny adds helpfully. "Except there is sometimes."

Meyer doesn't smile. He can't, with company. But the asshole with the fancy ID card is fuming and trying to move forward before Meyer has given the all-clear, so Benny moves further into his space and grins with teeth.

"Alright. Benny?" Meyer says, after waiting long enough to make the point and let him know he did right.

Benny knows how he looks, how old he is. The press either - well, he can't say shit but he can certainly talk shit, fine lines and all. What else he does is his own, and Meyer has staked his name on it with something resembling a blank cheque, which is everything, and like fuck Benny is going to throw that back in his face.

"In 1787," Meyer says a little later, no louder than anyone else but eliciting a silence none the less, enough that his words carry through to where Benny is tapping idly at a twitter sockpuppet. Benny wonders if he's bored. "Numerous delegates opposed to the Bill of Rights. The Georgia delegation said; 'If we list a set of rights, some fools in the future are going to claim that people are entitled only to those rights enumerated and no others.'"

"Are you calling me a fool, Mr. Lansky?"

"I'm not calling you a fool, sir. The state of Georgia is."

Benny turns his headphones off and decides, in retrospect, he is having a relatively decent day.

 

 

> _THE BILLIE KENT SHOW: TRANSCRIPT, 28/05/2016, 4 min 26 sec_
> 
> _KENT: This whole idea of childhood sweethearts, people are really connecting to that. Do you think that is the reason this has stayed on the front page?_
> 
> _LUCIANO: Maybe, I mean, I get that. I knew him as a kid. We knew each other. I don't know  if we were- not until college._
> 
> _UNIDENTIFIED MALE VOICE: [inaudible]_
> 
> _LUCIANO: Friends, I mean._
> 
> _KENT: Of course. And roommates too?_
> 
> _LUCIANO: Not at first. He was a freshman. I had standard to uphold, you know?_

   


Charlie is pretty sure he's got the number of fair use factors down to an art. Charlie is pretty sure Hustler v. Falwell can suck his dick, and if there's a joke about losing his cherry in there somewhere then Al fucking got to it first. Charlie is drunk, very drunk and that is entirely Frank's fault. The door won't open right but he throws his shoulder into it. He just wants to sleep, maybe, just wants to lie down but some complete fucking asshole has moved all his shit so he tries to turn the light on first.

'Tries' being the operative term.

Someone is there and Charlie puts all the weight he can behind the swing, because scholarships are an interesting ride but they don't change the streets you cut your teeth on. They don't change shit if you don't let them. It hits home but the guy is quicker, the guy is moving when Charlie is still trying to keep a hold on the concept of up, and he's flat on his back with a knee against his ribs and fingers around his throat before he has a chance for a second try. The back of his head hits hardwood and blunt fingernails on his skin make a memory if not a mark.

"Charlie, what _the fuck_ ," Meyer says, above. Above makes sense.

It occurs to him that moving all his shit as well as changing the colour of the walls is an objectively unlikely level of effort to go to, considering. "This is your room," he informs the blurred, doubled-up pair of Meyers, because that is important and new information. Everything dips down like falling, but that probably isn't real. The weight on his chest shifts, lifts away, but he can still feel something against his neck where the pressure should be. That probably isn't real either. And then the special guest all at once; unwelcome, real. "I hit you."

Meyer doesn't  seem to grasp the magnitude of the situation, because he only sighs, and pushes at Charlie's shoulder enough to stop him from trying to get up. As if nothing is wrong. Everything is wrong.

"I hit you." There should be other words, that know how falling feels, words not-right enough. "I hit you."

"I'm not going to be the one with bruises," Meyer says drily, and he looks tired when he says it. Charlie is sorry for that. Charlie is sorry and this is how sorry ought to feel, he knows. Knocked around at the edges until he learns better. He's so sorry. He is. Meyer didn't come out tonight, Meyer isn't finished exams, not yet, and now Charlie has gone and-

"Be quiet," Meyer says,  and "drink this" and "don't be fucking stupid, I'm not letting you near stairs."

These are all the things he almost remembers in the morning, when his head feels a little like someone took a baseball bat to it, and is competing with his stomach. There's bottled water spilled on the floor, and another empty, which means this could have been worse and he owes Meyer a week's worth of coffee and grovelling, probably. He even wakes up on the bed; two weeks, at least. Charlie writes his thanks on a post-it and makes sure to lock Meyer's door properly after changing the sheets and tidying what he can.

He figures an early start on atonement can't hurt and heads for Starbucks. Frank, because he is quite literally the worst human being alive, is not only there but is also cheerful and in jogging gear.

He's smiling widely when he sets eyes on Charlie, but his smile falters for a second though, and he reaches out and fixes Charlie's shirt collar like no one has since he was nine and late for church.

"Keep it neat, kiddo." Frank says. It sounds like a question. Charlie smiles because he's not sure what that means and Frank relaxes, so that's okay. He doesn't work it out until that evening, not until he gets home to a mirror.

These are the things one should not, will not admit: he turns off the lights and closes his hand over what remains of the darkened imprint. It hurts just fine but it isn't the same.

 

 

> _The O'Banion Factor, 23/05/2016,  Deleted Footage._
> 
> _IANOTTI: ... don't accept the question._
> 
> _O'BANION: I'm just saying, as a bisexual, an open bisexual in the political sphere, would you say that the relationships he is publically noted to have had with women when you knew him in you college years-_
> 
> _IANOTTI: I'm not answering the question. And our friendship isn't in the past tense, Dean._
> 
> _O'BANION: As a friend, then. Can you comment on when you believe the relationship began?_
> 
> _IANOTTI: I can. I won't. What I will do is take issue with any suggestion that a person's sexual orientation has any-_
> 
> _O'BANION: I'm not trying to comment on that. I'm not concerned about that. But as pure speculation, if we put aside college days, campaign tensions can-_
> 
> _IANOTTI: I'm done._
> 
> _[microphone static]_

 

 

"I think I'm dying," Charlie says, stretched out on a couch that's far too small for that to be comfortable. "I'm dying, maybe already dead, and I want it on my gravestone that it is because of a split infinitive and your lack of mercy."

"Finish the draft, then you can die," Meyer says reflexively. There is a headache building behind his eyes but he has taken more than the medically advisable number of Aleve already. Maybe. Keeping count might have been-

"We could get it in after the tax thing." Charlie says quietly. The headache is, if not gone, a secondary concern. "We spin into the aspirational shit already, you know, you know it." Charlie is half sitting up, shifting for whatever this is, round six? Round number who knows, and brace for impact. Charlie's head is tilted up a little. He was chewing on his pen and there is ink at the corner of his mouth. Meyer hates everything and everyone for a moment, and his answer is half a second slow.

"I know it. He's not talking about that, Charlie."

"We could-"

"He's not talking about- fuck, it's just for now, Charlie. We're talking about Thompson now. We're talking about Van Alden now. We're talking about tax loopholes and firearms and a nightmare fever-dream at the border with Mexico. We're talking about what we're _against_."

"I don't know what the fuck _we're for_!" Charlie says, loud and angry and biting back on the words too late.

Meyer's not sure why he's surprised, but he is. Meyer has the answer, he has all the right answers. Three pages of them in his hands in this moment alone, each line a carefully crafted defense against the one thing they cannot allow themselves to admit.

Except that Charlie always has had a problem with self-preservation.

Except that Charlie is ducking his head and frowning, like he's about do something unbearable, like apologise.

Except that Charlie looks as tired as Meyer feels.

(It's the kind of tired that is picking off all the better parts of him first, any cog or lever worth anything as his mind ticks over. It's peeling away the voice that reminds him that he can't reach over to touch the ink stain at the corner of Charlie's mouth that maps creases in his skin when he bites at his lip, that there are infinitely safer options, like leaving the room, or walking into traffic.)

"Then we'll work it out, yes?" Meyer says, instead. Here and for this, maybe; but really he's not talking about that. "However long it takes."

Charlie looks at him and there's _trust_ in the way he nods. The headache, as it turns out, did not go away.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

> _Good Morning America, 12/02/2016, 4 min 52 sec._
> 
> _Danziger: So we're talking about the use of a, well, a vulgar-_
> 
> _Thompson: A vulgar term beneath the dignity of certain stations, in the United States of America that I believe in._
> 
> _Danziger: [slight pause] Of course._
> 
> _Thompson: That sort of thing might seem smart, with a New York sense of humour. Clever, uh-  better than the rest of us. But where I come from, there are certain values-_

 

 

Charlie has not had coffee, at all. Charlie was not told that a Thompson was in the building. One of these is a hangable offence, he's just trying to work out which one. Which one, and ideally if he can find a way that this could be Benny's fault.

Charlie's making through the room to cut him off when Meyer turns the corner, harried. He's got a bunch of memos or something similiar in his hands; tilts the paper close when he stops short, and Charlie has to stop himself from reaching out on instinct. He's tired, and Charlie can see it in his eyes. Charlie turns around with words on his tongue.

"Mr. Thompson." Meyer says first. "I'm very glad you're here. I would like to address my unfortunate choice of words on friday. It was, as you have publicly noted, vulgar and unnecessary."

"I apologise, Eli," Meyer says, while a half a dozen people find something else to furiously focus on, while Charlie reads the room and goes still. "What I should have - and intended to - say is that you are a incomprehensible human waste of space and fucking infant that I and the party, quite frankly, are sick of suckling on your brother's behalf, and yet cannot find a way to humanely put down while simultaneously fending off the three quarters of the Republican party currently channelling Jeffrey Dahmer at me and mine. So you'll forgive me if I tell you to quietly and unobtrusively go fuck yourself, and for once not livetweet it, although my eighteen year-old intern would be ecstatic if you did. Schadenfreude is a remarkable motivator."

Sometimes, Charlie doesn't need coffee. Sometimes, Meyer is electric, and Charlie hardly minds falling into his orbit, can't imagine why you wouldn't.

"But we are not here to get into that. We are here to work together for a better future. It is, as I am informed, the true meaning of Christmas. I wouldn't know, being an example of... what was it you said on Good Morning? New York type of-"

"Meyer, I-"

"Jewish," Charlie says, right on cue. Knows his cue, loves to play his part, hates how often. "He meant Jewish. He was talking about you, and Arnie."

"Well," Meyer says, sweetly.  He has to lift his head to even meet Eli's eyes. He has leant back against his desk, tilting his body in to cede space, smiles with teeth even as he does. "We don't need to get into that, I'm sure."

 

 

 

 

> _Vogue, May 2016 - Rothstein Campaign; design brief- 1920's and Broadway; POLITICAL TRUTHS_
> 
> _Annie Leibovitz: Defining 21st Century through Photography_
> 
> _"You don't have to sort of enhance reality", she says. "There is nothing stranger than truth."_

 

  
"So okay," Benny says, leaning against Meyer as the cameras are re-adjusted, something to do with light, something Meyer could not give less of a fuck about if he tried. He leans his whole weight and Meyer doesn't shift an inch, because he was ready for it. Benny's cheek hits Meyer's shoulder and he blinks up at him, guileless. "You're really fucking this right up, huh."

"Benny-"

"I really mean it, Mey." Benny says, earnest.

"First photo op with him," Benny says, unwrapping a piece of gum and popping in his mouth. Meyer is almost certain he was already chewing gum. "And you look like you're about to break into a lecture on the benefits of the right to choose."

"And I'm not talking about Roe v. Wade, I'm talking Initiative 1000, on steroids, I'm talking no-need-to-be-assisted suicide." Benny says.

"I had a quote unquote Swiss clinic? You would be the poster boy, man, no question. It's impressive." Benny says.

"Benny." Meyer says softly. "For a multitude of reasons, shut the fuck up."

Benny shuts the fuck up. Benny smiles. Benny doesn't shift his weight away, though.

That's good, it is, because that's about when Charlie stops talking to the make-up girl who has decided to play with his hair for the thousandth time and looks over at them, smile soft and still half-asleep as he mouths 'sorry.' Nodding back is a calculated effort.

"Fucking it up so much," Benny says, happily.

 

 

 

 

> _THE BILLIE KENT SHOW: Reshot footage, 28/05/2016, 5 min 12 sec_
> 
> _KENT: But later, you were rooming together?_
> 
> _LUCIANO: [laughing] Back when you and I met, yeah._
> 
> _KENT: I wasn't going to go there._
> 
> _LUCIANO: You have stories._
> 
> _KENT: I don't like to self-incriminate._
> 
> _LUCIANO: But seriously. I think it - I think it matters. We know we can live together, you know? The little stupid things that can fuck up a- shit I'm sorry, gattina, can I do that again?_
> 
> _KENT: Yeah, honey._

 

  
  
Charlie has been knocked on his ass before. Once, he sat down where the chair ought to have been. Sat down en-route to emphasise a point and ended up on the ground, air out of his lungs, briefly considering a career change - NASA, or something further away. This is similar.

"Mey," he says, words all messed up over each other. "You- shit, you didn't have to."

Meyer looks down at the bag in his hand and shifts, barely perceptibly, the backpack over his shoulder. "Yes." He says eventually. "Dirty laundry. Gratitude makes perfect sense."

He's got an oversized plastic bag of laundry and the rest of his life in a backpack that Charlie knows hasn't zipped properly for two fucking years, and all of this is Charlie's mess, he did this, he should be the one out of step and out of place and trying to patch up the corners. He should be the one making concessions, the one-

"We agreed," Meyer is saying, and he hasn't moved from the doorway. "Your place is bigger."

They had. It had seemed academic, at the time. Bigger, better commute. Decent views. Came through a friend of AR's, so Charlie doesn't pay what he should. Charlie didn't think any of this through. It's not fair.

"I didn't think this through," Charlie says. "It's-"

"Don't finish that sentence." Meyer says, without any real bite, pushing past Charlie as he does.

He knows the free spaces, doesn't need to be directed to a drawer. Charlie starts taking things out of the fridge, because although he can't necessarily find his way around a stove better than Meyer can he is far more willing to pretend that's not true. It seems the thing to do, anyway. Keep it half-filled, even if he throws away more than he uses, buys the nicer stuff, fresh, forgets that means he's running on a time limit. Meyer wanders over and doesn't commit, but is willing to play with the sharper knives. The chopping board is heavy. Good quality. Charlie didn't buy it.

Meyer is particular about having the spring onion cut evenly, and pauses midway, scrunches up his face. Charlie thinks it- Charlie thinks he ought to be able to lodge a formal complaint, somewhere.

"Do you like your couch?" Meyer asks.

"Well, I mean." Charlie makes a face. "It came with the place?"

"Good. Benny will take it." Meyer doesn't sound apologetic. Possibly a little of apologetic's belligerent cousin.

What they end up with is in the vicinity of a stir fry and probably edible, and they eat it on the couch in question, because dorm days are not so far away as they like to pretend in the light of day. _Cat On A Hot Tin Roof_ comes on TMC as it hits midnight. Meyer rolls his eyes, indulges him anyway.

Thing is, Charlie's bed isn't small. Thing is, they've shared a bed before - a bed, a floor. Charlie too drunk to make it home. Both of them staying at that party, sleeping bags and fold-outs, Meyer not entirely comfortable in the space until Charlie puts himself between him and strangers. They're grown fucking adults and they've shared a bed before, easy, practical.

Thing is, Benny doesn't come around, and Charlie pretends to fall asleep before credits, stays where he is when Meyer moves.  



	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

> _TheBlaze TV, 19/05/2016, 3 min 40 sec._
> 
> _Dewey: I don't care. I don't care. Just don’t destroy my marriage, don’t destroy my church. If you want to find a church that marries a gay couple, that’s totally fine. My church does not do that and it will fundamentally change what I believe is the eternal family, the basic building block. Family is the building block._
> 
> _Dewey: What we too often forget to do is discuss the impact this political circus can have on family. I have someone here to talk about-_

  
  
  
There's someone in Meyer's office and he didn't give a name. Meyer is about to have someone's fucking keycard for letting that happen when Benny catches his eye and squints, somewhere between 'all good' and 'I'm so bored I might fucking die', so whoever it is, it's probably not going to be a problem.

The guy, he's nervous, sitting on the edge of the chair and playing with his hat. He's a Luciano, so he goes for an arm slung around Meyer's neck rather than the handshake and after all these years it still takes Meyer half a second to realise. Meyer leans in just enough to return in kind, but he means it.

"Are you looking for Charlie?" Meyer says. Charlie likes it when Bart visits. "He'll be free in a moment, I can call for-"

"No." Bart says quickly. "Yeah. I mean, in a second. We're getting lunch. I just wanted to-" he trails off. Ah.

"Frank might have beat you to that conversation," Meyer says. "We share a gym," he adds, deadpan, because in hindsight it's funny.

Bart is barely confused for a moment before he laughs. "I bet he did. Jesus. But that's, ah, that's not it."

Meyer has two meetings in the next hour and minimal space set aside for breathing, let alone transit. He stays still. "Is there something else I can do?" he asks.

Bart eyes the door, so Meyer closes it. The worst part is how Bart relaxes when it's the two of them. Meyer is reminded of Charlie, slumped against his side and day-drinking, after he'd gone home for Christmas and come back far too quiet. Family is family is family is family is, he said, then took another shot and admitted he didn't remember how he had intended that sentence to end. Sometimes Meyer wonders which one of them it was who broke the news to Rosalia, half hopes it was one of them, truly hopes if it was that it was Bart.

"Dad did an interview," Bart says.

"I'm telling him at lunch," Bart says.

"I just wanted to- in case there was anything you could do." Bart says. He hands over a slightly crumpled napkin. It has notes on it.

If it is who Meyer thinks it is, there is nothing he can do.

"I'll see what I can do," he says, "Thank you. I have your number. Is Charlie waiting for you?"

"Yeah."

Bart is almost out the door when he hesitates. "The other thing. I know Frank, uh, would've done this better," he says, not quite looking at Meyer. "Just. He ain't ever going to not be my baby brother."

He's a Luciano. Meyer tries to think what he would be doing already, if this was Charlie. Puts his hand on Bart's arm and squeezes for just a moment, tilts his head up to look Bart in the eyes and hold his gaze.

Bart's smile is too familiar, too easy, too bright. Maybe Meyer was wrong about the worst part. "Right," he says. "Great, that's good. That's great, Meyer."

 

 

 

 

> _Top Politics Tweets Retweeted: NVAITZK @ZodiacVanAlden 17 May 2016 | love is eternal, and so is the exhilarating feeling of murdering several californians #ZodiacVanAlden_

 

 

  
"What the shit is wrong with you," he says accusingly, sweeping in to Charlie's office like a meteorological emergency. "What the fuck."

"Good morning, Benny." Charlie says. "Great, thanks, and how are you?"

"I told Stacy from accounts it was gonorrhea." Benny says.

Okay.

"The assorted ivy league speechwriters are working with the implication of chlamydia and that assfuck Tim thinks Meyer found clialis in the bathroom cabinet and kicked you to the couch on principle. It was real smart, okay, because we'll know who to fire based on what HuffPo thinks is wrong with your dick at deadline."

Charlie is almost entirely certain Benny has not said at least two of those things. "Fuck you, what th-"

"They keep asking me what you're fighting about. I'm a nice person, okay," Benny says, in defiance of both common sense and all available evidence. "So I give you a couple of days. But now you need to stop being sad-weird and locate wherever it is you left your balls and buy Meyer a goddamn bagel when he forgets to eat like you have every day since the ink dried on your fucking Rothstein for President contract."

It's right on the edge of his tongue, to say 'I don't know what you're talking about.' He can see the moment Benny realises that, too. He shifts his weight, something in his eyes, and Charlie realises with a vague sense of almost-fondness that if he pulls that shit now he's going to get hit for real.

"Meyer hasn't been eating?" He says instead. "How many coffees has he had?"

Benny slams three receipts on the desk.

"Do I give these to you," he asks, "Or is there someone who takes care of... whatever? I'm not paid enough for this shit."

"No one hired you, there are child labour laws." Charlie says, briefly rallying. "We shouldn't be paying you at all."

Benny smiles beatifically.

"If I give you fifty dollars right now," Charlie says, "Will you please go away for the rest of the day."

"Done." Benny says, and fucking winks.

 

 

 

> _The Esther Randolph Show, 21/05/2016, 21 min 4 sec_
> 
> _RANDOLPH: You make almost $200,000 a year to write rules to make our society better. Not tweet, not tell us about your thoughts and prayers. Right now, since 1998, the NRA has given $3.7 million to Congress. There are 294 sitting members of Congress that have accepted contributions from the NRA. And this week Meyer Lansky wanted to talk about that.  
>  _
> 
> _[BEGIN CLIP]_
> 
> _LANSKY: -don't want to talk about that. And the thing is, I also don't want to talk about why there a 27 states with permissive carry laws and 16 with open-_
> 
> _REMUS: The public has an understandable interest in-_
> 
> _LANSKY: I don't want to talk about how 5:30 in the morning yesterday, while four children were asleep in the house, a forty three year old man says he was unloading his revolver when it went off. The round hit his girlfriend in the side of the head, killing her. I don't want to talk about a 51 year old man in Iowa today who says he thought the gun he pointed at his 18-year-old daughter was unloaded. It wasn’t. I don't want to talk about the 57 year old grandmother in West Virginia who killed her own grandson because she thought she heard an intruder. I will, though. I believe we need to._
> 
> _LANSKY: But if you'd rather waste these gentlemen's time asking me personal questions I am not going to answer, then go on._
> 
> _[END CLIP]_
> 
> _RANDOLPH: Oh, damn._

 

  
  
"You're on television," Charlie says happily, curled on his couch, already in pyjamas.

Meyer has a toothbrush in his mouth and makes as much of an affirmative noise as is more or less safe.

"Mey, you're-"

"Yes." Meyer says flatly. "I was there at the time."

Charlie just smiles, and tilts his head in a way that is not entirely safe, not really, but it is not his fault if he doesn't know that.

Meyer stares at himself in the mirror long enough to hammer that lesson home.

By the time he's out Charlie has flicked the channel again, and Meyer settles in on the couch. He'll do it, but he doesn't like it. Isn't good, under the camera, like Charlie is. They talk a lot of rubbish about misdirection and Meyer knows that sometimes he looks on the wrong side of the drinking age and that is a certain trump card to play, but Charlie is something else. Charlie moves to any camera like they're old friends, like he wants to be yours, is oh so sorry someone else has a prior claim.

Borderline unmanageable, sometimes.

He prefers it when he is in Charlie's ear, metaphorically or otherwise. Scribbling lines fifteen minutes before screen time, a voice in his the headpiece when tecnhology and other factors allow.

("And who taught you to dress like that?" a morning show host asks, unaware, and Meyer feels the tension across the studio. The pretty little feel-good childhood lie Charlie won't be able to say, and AR is the wrong answer, true or not. Not wholly true.

"Mad Men, mostly," Meyer says, drily, and Charlie's mouth moves a bare half-moment later, echoes the words.

Everyone laughs, because this breakfast tv, this counts as funny.)

"You should do this more often," Charlie says, honest and sleepy.

"Sure," Meyer lies, and fixes the mess of Charlie's hair, just a little.  

 

 

 

 

> _Wachtell, Lipton, Rosen & Katz; Meeting Room 3, 19/05/2016_
> 
> _UNIDENTIFIED MALE VOICE #1: -this kind of, this non-disclosure of, uh, information relevant to knowing what kind of agenda-_
> 
> _COSTELLO: I don't know if you've seen the papers, but I'm not sure much more disclosure would be legal to print._
> 
> _UNIDENTIFIED MALE VOICE #2: We were all very glad to see you make partner, Frank. But we've been with this firm a long time. We'd appreciate a little less flippancy._
> 
> _COSTELLO: Allow me to apologise, sir. I misunderstood the gentleman. I thought he was suggesting that we sue any political staffer who doesn't publicly disclose each of their sexual encounters._
> 
> _UNIDENTIFIED MALE VOICE #1: Oh, for fuck's sake- it's a little more complicated than that, Frank._
> 
> _COSTELLO: Let me uncomplicate it for you._

 

  
  
This one sure is something. He usually goes for the speed bag and Frank can admire that. Today, though, he's joined Frank hitting at the heavy. He's got great footwork, honestly enviable technique. Frank is in a good mood regardless. He's delighted.

"I'm delighted," Frank informs him, in between measured breathing. "And I get it, a proper housewarming was not entirely convenient." He's sending a few things over, anyway. The delivery guy had assured him installation was included, for the larger appliances. "By the way, do you guys own a juicer?"

Meyer makes a noncommital noise, perfectly on rhythm and wound tighter than a cartoon spring. Frank thinks he probably should have started simpler, like asking if they own a real bed, or vegetables.

"You need to come down here more often," he says instead.

"We can't all take private sector breaks," Meyer says evenly, and it's almost impressive how much he can make that sound like a string of four letter words.

"Just because they are very, really _very_ rich," Frank says, placidly, "Does not mean they aren't entitled to the full protection of the law."

"Incredible." Meyer bites out. "We could put that on bumper stickers."

There are unkind things he could say about Carolyn Rothstein's tax return, but this is between friends, and anyway he's off the clock right now.

"Have it for free." He says expansively. "Anniversary gift, if I'm working out the dates right."

Meyer missteps and taps double, gets his footing back soon enough.

"Do you need a tailor?" Franks asks. "I have a tailor." He thinks about it. "I have three."

"Got a fucking _suit_ ," says Meyer, through gritted teeth.

"Okay." Frank says. Hit and dance away. That's what Ali said. Frank has forgotten to make something clear for a bit too long now, and he needs to say it.  

"He's a good kid," Frank says. "Always was. A good kid then - standing outside Tryon and goddamn shivering 'cause they put him away in June and let him out in December." A pause, a moment, a one-two beat to punctuate. "Didn't ask for a lift, didn't think to. Put him in my car and filed the fucking sealing motion on his records myself."

It's not so much the sound of leather bag giving way as it is the brief look of betrayal that crosses Meyer's face. Frank whistles admiringly, because hell.

"He's a good kid," he adds nonetheless, soft like he would if Charlie were here and knew that his name mattered. "Has people who care, and I'm fucking good at my job."

"I'll bear that in mind," Meyer tells him, and takes Frank's water. Doesn't ask. Doesn't freeze it solid on contact; Frank wasn't going to entirely discount the possibility. "But no one here is a child."

Fucking true, that.

This one sure is something.

 

 

 

> _THE BILLIE KENT SHOW: Reshot footage, 28/05/2016, 7 min 12 sec_
> 
> _KENT: I feel like I need to put a disclaimer._
> 
> _LUCIANO: You never gave us a cent, I know that for sure._
> 
> _KENT: Oh shut up. But you- never mind._
> 
> _LUCIANO: Did I mess up?_
> 
> _KENT: No. You're always good, sweetheart._
> 
> _KENT: Okay, starting again, we're cutting that._

  
  
  
"It could be done," Meyer says, out of nowhere, while they drive back.

"Mhmm?" Charlie says. "Another interview? Yeah, uh. Billie is always great, but jesus, I think I can wait to do that again." He grins. Meyer, who is driving, doesn't. "Oh, come on. You knew her too, she's wonderful. If she says she'll cut it, she'll cut it. I swear. It went well, Mey."

"Yes." Meyer says. A beat. "If you let me work out the details." He says, too careful. "Not now, but you could."

He knows before he knows, like usual, an inexplicable cold falling on the inside, a sudden empty. "Mey-"

"I can work it out," Meyer says absently. "Make bookings, make empty time."

"Let me the fuck out."

Opening the door of a moving car is always a terrible idea, but he's angry. He's spent too long being sorry, being grateful to find anger because it isn't scorn, sorry and sorry and sorry and thank you sir, and fuck it. He's too angry to care, or be grateful for Meyer's quick reflexes.

"Fuck you," he snarls, tumbling out of the abruptly still car.

"No." He says as he hits the ground and gets up, gesturing wildly. He should shut up.

(Shut up, Charlie.)

"No, fuck that. You want to keep me on a short leash, that's fair. I gotta work back in from the cold, okay, okay, I will. But not for nothing. Not for fucking nothing."

(Shut up the fuck up, Charlie.)

"You think I'm too stupid or just too fucking selfish?" One or the other, and this isn't just about him any more, this is Meyer's life. This is stupid and out of control and Meyer's career is tied to it and... fuck, _fuck._ "Come down from the pedestal a second and just let me have it, I'd rather know. I'd rather you just fucking say it. All this bullshit, you too, and you think I would ever play games wi-"

"Shut up, Charlie." someone says, someone not Charlie, so he does.

"I don't-" Meyer says, then stops. Breathes in sharp and halting. "I-" He stops again. As far as Charlie knows Meyer hasn't been unable to finish a sentence since he was eleven; bleeding at the mouth and too angry to form words, while Charlie had stepped back out of self-preservation. He doesn't look angry now. He looks like he is fracturing, and trying not to make too much of a mess as he does.

"You have had," Meyer says carefully, "Too many options taken away from you. I won't do that."

"You don't," Charlie says wildly, without thinking, without needing to.

Meyer still looks like he's hurting. Something still isn't fixed. Charlie is familiar with these moments, bet all and lose all. But you have to. He'll take the hit, if he's wrong, he always will, if nothing else then he has learned that.

"Got you." Charlie blurts out, ducks his head and kisses the back of Meyer's hand, "Got everything," and then he shuts up and stays very still.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

> _Wonkette, 11.03 am, 19/05/2016, U.S. of America's Bright Young Minds Break Entire Internet, With Sexiness_
> 
> _Y’ALL. It’s Saturday! You’re probably like “Ugh Tony, why do we have to look upon the hotness of Rothstein Campaign Manager Charles 'Get Lucky' Luciano again THIS SUCKS.” That’s because you’re bad at life. But we can explain. First of all, you brokeded the internet with that post last week about Charlie boy and Democracy's Angry Friend Meyer Lansky making doe-eyes at each other. Wait, that’s incorrect, YOU did not break the internet. I DID. Because I wrote that post. So this week, we're recapping the Top Ten Photos That Should Have Clued Us-_

 

"Got you."

(Rule one-)

"Got everything."

People get them wrong. Meyer has fight or flight dancing down every tendon, knit into his bones, and command of that is something he's earned. It's Charlie for whom being still comes naturally, comes honestly. If he can't fight or if he won't fight he will be still. And he will wait.

Like he's waiting now, while Meyer resurfaces.

"It's okay," Charlie is saying, not just trying to convince Meyer, too fast and terribly soft. "That's okay. Just tell me you- tell me to get in the car. I won't say it again. It can be okay."

Charlie with his eyes fixed on the ground is too familiar. Charlie with a raindrops on his eyelashes is not fair. Charlie with his shoulders drawn tight to make himself just a little smaller is wrong.

"I don't want you to get in the car," Meyer says.

Charlie with permission is a revelation.

He kisses Meyer with one hand resting at the back of Meyer's neck, palm steady and fingers tracing patterns in short hair. Charlie pulls back a little but not enough to break contact, just drags his own bottom lip against Meyer's, presses again at the corner of his mouth, again and again. He's cold to the touch like Meyer must be too, touch that is a little sharper and less delicate for it. Meyer must be too, he knows, but he also knows that it couldn't be possible, what is hammering in his veins near enough to burning that it couldn't be possible anything of frost survives that. Meyer knows both these things with certainty.

(Rule one. Keep to the point.)

Charlie kisses Meyer with one hand resting at the back of Meyer's neck, palm steady and fingers tracing patterns in short hair. Meyer kisses him back.

At some point they move, or maybe turn and Meyer is the one stepping forward into the space Charlie makes when he steps back, Charlie's back is hitting the car. But it's not a dance that Meyer is leading. That is very much the opposite of a problem, but it is a problem that the cold in his fingers is edging on pain, that there aren't headlights in either direction but there will be, that Charlie is shivering and Meyer doesn't know that he is the one doing that. Meyer wants to know that he is the one doing that.

"We're on the side of the road." Meyer says.

"Highway," Charlie agrees distractedly, then resumes tracing the curve of Meyer's collarbone with a hint of teeth. He smiles, though, when Meyer grips his jaw each side and tilts his head back up, demanding.

"Not on the side of the road." Meyer says.

He doesn't take his hands from Charlie's face, and Charlie smiles wider.

"So, uh."

Well, Meyer walked into that one.

"So I should get in th-"

Charlie with his fingers hooked in the belt loops of Meyer's jeans is a beautiful laughing bastard, and without a readily available retort Meyer takes an extra minute to kiss the fucker quiet.

 

 

 

 

> _< content="http://img.wonkette.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/19/backstage-CNN-roundtable-09.jpg"/><meta name="photo 4" content="source: edition.cnn.com">_
> 
>   
>  _(He runs through it one more time, where Charlie can talk big, where he should but can't, what they care about and everything that they don't yet, and he's cold. He is cold but apparently not cold enough because Charlie just smiles, lopsided, voice summer-touched in ways that won't get out of his head. "You might be talkin' treason there, little Meyer," Charlie says._  
>  _"Fluently." Meyer says, and finishes fixing Charlie's tie before the cameras start rolling, but not before they flash bright.)_

  
  
Meyer goes for the cabinet when they get back, goes for the stuff they can't afford, the stuff they have because this town runs on gifts and things that are not technically lies. He gets out two glasses.

"I'm three ahead of you," Charlie says honestly, because Meyer was the one driving. Meyer drove them back. He must have, they're here. He's still feeling a pulse under his hands that isn't his and Meyer bit his lip hard enough that it is swelling slightly already and they are here, in the place that is theirs. Three isn't enough to make a difference and if Meyer pours it he'll drink it. He'll play fair, but that works both ways, and he's had his turn making first bet.  

Meyer pours one and drinks it too fast.

Tastes good on Charlie's lips, a couple of moments later.

He hadn't sat down, in case Meyer wanted to talk, in case he wanted someone to leave, but Charlie sits now. On the edge of the bed and looking up, because Meyer has stayed standing, glass in hand.

He can't get his jacket off fast enough, gets messed up in the sleeves.  He's working on the collar of his shirt when he hears glass touch hardwood, carefully put aside.

"Lie back," Meyer tells him.

He does.

Meyer is good with the buttons, careful but not slow. He's more or less done it before, if you are loose with the definition. The last two buttons done up before breakfast at an ungodly hour,  a missed one redone before cameras arrive, enough times that Charlie doesn't have one clear memory to fall back on while he tries to keep still. Not that any of them would help, if he's honest.

Meyer is kneeling over Charlie but careful, no weight on him, not touching. The last two buttons, he hesitates.

"What can I do?" Meyer says quietly.

Charlie knows the correct answer to this question. Sometimes he even means it. He'd mean it tonight but this question isn't tilted the same way; when it is, it's rhetorical at most.

"What should I do, Charlie?" Meyer says, not rhetorical. Gentle but not backing down, and jesus fuck. Charlie packed this possibility away a long time ago, something that belongs to Meyer and Meyer only, something he has no right to touch. Except now he might have, and he's always had a little trouble remembering past when Meyer still needed someone half-again his size to step in and take the broken nose instead.

(The punchline is that he never fucking did, and knowing that never stopped Charlie from wanting to.)

"Kiss me again," Charlie says, "please, Mey?"

 

 

 

 

> _< content="http://img.wonkette.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/19/lansky-luciano-capone-graduation.jpg"/><meta name="photo 1" content="source: wonkette">_
> 
>   
>  _(They all had iphones with better resolution, which is something he'll probably worry about later, but some drunk hipster fucker left polariods all over the floor and tucked under people's doors, and Charlie likes how his mother brushes her thumb over this one, pins it to the fridge. "My boy," she says, bright-eyed. She liked the ceremony, though Charlie could only feel the strange distance between the reality of those years and the formality of their culmination; Charlie mainly remembers the drinks later and the presumption of an arm slung heavy but careful around Meyer's neck, the exhilaration of getting away with it, with somehow being allowed. He smiles again, as wide as in the photo.)_

  
  
Meyer knows why Charlie is answering in questions, and still falls for every one, every _may I?_ and every _will you?_ sometimes more literally than others. He's straddling Charlie's hips and he chose to do that, but Charlie's eyes don't leave his, making each invitation in turn, disguised as _please, please._

There are things Meyer didn't want, never really wasted too much time thinking about. But he thinks he does, now, knows he wants something, and it is a harder door to close. He knows, he tried. Because it was Charlie. Because it was Charlie, and he's different, he speaks in touch, would give it away for nothing by nature in a better world that had taught him fewer lessons. Except Meyer is not like that. Except this hunger isn't gentle and for Meyer to reach out even once, even once with an intent to tuck something away, selfish and fucking stolen, it would be-

He kept the door shut, because it was Charlie. Hated himself for it, because this was Charlie.

He can't tell Charlie that, he thinks, pulling at buttons. He can't tell him, because the distinction between Meyer being hurt by Charlie and Meyer hurting himself over Charlie is something that will always be the same fucking thing, for Charlie.

( _"Kiss me again?" Charlie says, "please, Mey?"_ )

He's been trying to keep his weight braced even against the mattress, but his knee slips on the sheet just a fraction, bearing down clumsily and then there is just heat as Charlie's hips jerk upwards against Meyer in new and interesting ways, so. There's that. Charlie's shirt is somewhere, elsewhere, and Meyer is still almost dressed. He's hard, and Charlie is, and he's not entirely sure about the rough press of fabric between them, not sure if he wants it gone.

In his head, like memory, he puts the words together, has them ready on his tongue. _You know already, what you-_

In his head, like memory, he can feel Charlie's eyelashes on his cheek when Charlie blinks, feels it under his lips in Charlie's throat when he laughs far too softly to be mocking, nips at Meyer's earlobe. _Things I already know are boring._

Maybe he dreamed that, one time.

Meyer cups the side of Charlie's face, just to check. Brushes his thumb over Charlie's eyelashes just to check. Charlie, momentarily denied the opportunity to kiss down Meyer's neck, makes a brief huff of protest before settling down still to allow it, tilting his head as soon as he can and pressing his mouth against Meyer's palm instead. He presses his mouth against Meyer's palm, sucks lightly just above his wrist. Playful. Not a game, not when it hits Meyer low and heated like it does, has him pressing down for real just to feel the whole of Charlie there, every shift and press up and intake of breath.   

He pushes his thumb between Charlie's lips for no other reason than because he can.

 

 

 

> _< content="http://img.wonkette.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/19/debate-001-pic179.jpg"/><meta name="photo 7" content="source: getty images">_
> 
>   
>  _("-the fuck," Charlie hisses, trying to keep voice and expression steady as they make it out of the press room. "It's like he's got talking points fucking drafted by The Onion. I genuinely don't understand what just happened." There is something about the way he spits it out, Meyer will tell himself later. Something about the way he bites down on it because he knows he should but is too angry to stop talking. Meyer was only distracted for a moment, he will tell himself later. Even after Benny manages to accidentally-on-fucking-purpose embed the incriminating image in the daily media rounds three times in the following week. Anyone can get distracted, for a moment.)_

  
  
There's a part of Charlie's thoughts running wild to match his heartbeat, a part that's frozen except for when Meyer shifts above him and it's electric, a part that will maybe probably set this apartment on fire if he doesn't get everyone in it naked within one minute, a part that would be held down and wanting and begging for just the slightest press more friction for hours more and would say thank you for it.

It is, when he looks at it that way, somewhat confusing.

Except the thing is it _isn't_ , not really. It's all pretty simple, because Meyer is being Meyer, careful and taking him apart in pieces and keeping track, and every time Charlie gets it right there's something in the soft surprised way Meyer exhales, something in the way he looks at Charlie. It is right, the most right, and Charlie wants to do it again.

Meyer's thumb is in his mouth and he's too busy leaning up into it and wanting more, more and pressing in further, that he is a half-beat behind in noticing Meyer react.

There's a part of Charlie's thoughts running wild to match his heartbeat, with a grip on his neck that wasn't there before and Meyer's pupils blown. A part thinking about Meyer flipping them, pushing Charlie down, thinking about Meyer lounging seated with a hand in curled hair and Charlie on his knees, thinks _oh, oh-_

But they're not going to make it to that now, he knows. Charlie's hands are on the buttons of Meyer jeans, overly slow and mumbling something nonsensical into his mouth as he does until bites down on his lip sharp enough that Charlie practically hears it; yes, fuck you, stop giving me a way out. Charlie's fine with that. Charlie knows this, licks messy against his own palm and leans just enough to get the angle right, make it good. He can keep his hand gentle, fingers wrapped around Meyer and moving just sharp enough, even as he shakes himself, graceless.

Charlie tilts his head to prompt Meyer to bury his face in the crook of his shoulder, knows he would want to at least try to muffle the noises he's making now. Memorises the noises Meyer makes, now.

Afterwards Meyer is slumped against him, and that itself is - he dares not move for a moment, but Meyer grabs at the back of his neck like he did out on the side of the road, and Charlie is arching into the press of his thigh between Charlie's legs. It's probably not good, that this is enough. Probably not good, that he'd take less, for Meyer. Aching and fractured as he is for wanting, arms around Meyer's shoulders for a solid hold, but he knows that. Except Meyer seems to understand, or maybe he begs for it, but he bucks against the inexorable pressure dancing on hurt and it is enough.

Probably not good, but maybe some strange sort of fair play. His own first-

That doesn't matter.

"You-" Meyer says, soft.

Like I haven't since I was a fucking teenager, Charlie doesn't say, and curls towards him instead.

 

 

 

 

> _< content="http://img.wonkette.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/19/candid-pollnight.jpg"/><meta name="photo 9" content="source: img.twitter">_
> 
>   
>  _(Polls are closed and counting won't start for another hour, and Meyer is going to walk a hole in the carpet. Charlie drags him across the street, asks him if he's slept in the last 36 hours and isn't joking, buys them coffees that come in paper cups which aspire to buckethood. Bucketness? He's so fucking tired. He's tired but Meyer looks like he isn't even there, so Charlie tells him to have faith, in AR, in the voters, in whatever._
> 
> _Meyer gives him a look that could cut a man open, which probably shouldn't make Charlie's pulse jump like it does. "I prefer to be pleasantly surprised," he says, eventually, and takes Charlie's coffee without asking, because he's finished his own.)_

 

  
Meyer wakes to the ground shaking or something damn close, then re-orients himself and thanks whatever semblance of sense had him put the phone on silent. He grabs at it before it vibrates off the table.

 **[received] 7.04 am:** thing in twenty whatever fucking mins asshole

 **[received] 7.05 am:** or i just tell them 2 go fuck a duck huh

Charlie doesn't do more than curl tighter in his sleep, some small protesting noise at the shifting of warmth, but quiet again. Still and breathing slow and deep. Meyer tries not to move any further just in case, doesn't try not to smile at the message. He hesitates over the reply for a brief moment.

 **[sent] 7.06 am:** If you want, or give them my number direct.

 **[sent] 7.06 am:** Have fun.

 **[received] 7.28 am:** i had fun also u might need a statement for andy wrt the reported sexual practic es of eli thomfuck

 **[sent] 7.29 am:** Andy?

 **[received] 7.29 am:** anderson cooper and i have a john hughes saturday in detention fundamental connection thing

 **[sent] 7.30 am:** Of course you do.


End file.
